Dictatorship
by y11971alex
Summary: Marvel and Cato meet each other on the train to the Capitol. They discuss who should be the lead career this year, and Marvel has a few tricks up his sleeves. One-shot, but may continue by popular demand. Rated "M" for a "reason." Cato vs. Marvel.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Neighbours Marvel and Cato confer & deliberate on the railway on who should be the lead Career this year. Thing's are about to get steamy.

A/N: You might have seen that, although the listed paring is Cato – Marvel, I have put it down as Marvel v. Cato.

A/N: I would like to give my hearty thanks and complete recognition and accommodation to _guysonfire_ for inspiring me to write this narrative. He/she is truly a novelist of the first rate, and I should recommend you to read his works if you found mine interesting.

Warning: poor authorship, slash (or lack thereof).

I hereby disclaim ownership of the Hunger Games.

**Dictatorship**

Ah yes – I sign inevitably as I enter my carriage on the train, waving goodbye to my supporters and admirers. The place is incredibly well furnished. In about half a day, the tributes from District 2 will be joining us, as apparently the train goes this route. There is, however, a very pressing worry on my plate: I need to be the leader of the Career pack. For the past few Games, the leadership of the Careers has been monopolized by the tributes from 2, and District 1 desperately needs a leader, or else I should not gain many sponsors this year.

Due to the curious way the reapings are arranged, we will experience the strange phenomenon of witnessing them reaped and almost immediately stepping onto the train.

Flipping on the telly (that is a District-1-ism,) my entourage and I manage to catch the beginning of the reapings of District 2. Reaping is not quite the most descriptive term there is for the event: murder is perhaps the better term – mind-bogglingly well-trained pupils fight against each other to by the tribute.

To the right of the Mayor of the District sit the various victors from the place, and judging by the sheer amount of sofas that lined the promenade, they had quite a few.

Their escort, Franklin Boxworth, stands up to the dais. A short, plump man, he looked rather out-of-place in District 2. District 2, as rumours will carry, is a place of strength and power; nobody there ever tolerates weakness.

To his left stand the ladies – no, plainly females, as few of them deserve the title, and they have in their demeanour the ferocity and confidence that one would expect from only a male in such a paternal society. Their appearance betrays the obvious illegality of the majority of their associations and diversions – not that I am in a position to criticize, and the taint is equally well stained on me.

The Treaty is read, and from good school education provided in my town, I can recite the provisions almost one-by-one; I doubt if this is the case in the inferior (but nominally, numerically superior) district.

Demographically speaking, District 2 is a lot like District 1; the majority of the population have blond hair and light-coloured eyes. However, their training programme is considerably different from that of ours: more strength training for both sexes and this public secret is shamelessly divulged through the intentionally tight attire donned by the tribute hopefuls.

"Marvel~" whines my mentor, Gloss.

"Yes, Gloss?"

"Marvel~"

"Yes! Master~ Gloss."

"Yes Marvel?"

"I though you had something to say?"

"Yes. It's about the lead Career this year. Glimmer has withdrawn from the race, and we must think about some strategy to put the others off. Let's start with putting 4's tributes off."

"That's simple. We'll simple tell them that it's a _fait accompli_ when the come onto the train."

"Marvel~"

"Yes~"

"You're brilliant~"

"Thanks. What about 2?"

"My gut feeling is that the dark-haired girl, Clove, will withdraw too. So that leaves Cato to compete with you, and we definitely need to catch them off guard."

"And?"

"We'll [so and so]…"

…

"Remember, Marvel, you will be the gentleman and charm them into submission. Glimmer is your lady, and treat her like one."

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Cato walks into the Parlour Carriage in which both Glimmer and I were sitting. If there ever was a "best smirk" award given, I swear that Cato will get the prize absolutely unopposed. But then there are many peculiarities that tributes from 2 have, and their "death glare" course clearly has an effect on Clove, the silent and lethal girl beside Cato.

Cato apparently had a change of mind: on the telly he was wearing a leather jacket, now he is in white tie, with a shiny hat and a cane. I look down at my t-shirt and jeans. _Pitiful,_ I told myself.

Physically, Cato must be at least 240 lbs. and insanely powerful; the transmitted footage does no justice to his build. Fortunately, I am 1 inch taller than he is, and this gives me the opportunity to stare him down. Then the monstrous winner from 2, Brutus, shakes hands with my mentor Gloss. Such a difference exhibited: Cashmere, graceful and elegant; Brutus, brutish and rough.

Unfortunately, 1 inch gives me the opportunity only. Cato refuses to look into my eyes even as I speak to him.

"Pleasure to meet you," I speak, as cordially as I possibly could, and extending me hand, "Cato."

The complete unexpected happens.

Cato gives me a sweeping bow that I could not respond in a timely manner; I can't bow in time to return his courtesy. I am the first to be embarrassed. As he resumes his standing position, I can only describe the massive smirk on his face as downright evil.

He then approaches Glimmer in an incredibly overtly flirtatious manner. She responds erotically and offers her hand in recognition; he takes it, and gently kisses her hand. Then, the rough-and-ready Brutus follows suit with Cashmere.

It looks like I might not be the only gentleman on board.

I need to take action to prevent the situation from deteriorating further. Time to drop the writs and call the election.

"Ahem," I clear my throat, holding up a piece of paper, "my mentor, by virtue of the traditions of friendship and co-operation given and granted to us by our forefathers, desirous to continue the said friendship and co-operation between our two districts, do, by the letters patent which I now read, command all and singular of us to elect amongst us a lead Career, the which leader-elect shall be presented at the earliest convenience to my mentor, and all the other mentors, for their benediction and approbation."

Cato nods in calculation.

"I, Marvel, do hereby declare my candidacy for the position of lead Career for the seventy-fourth edition of the Games, and by virtue of my seal applied hence, de declare the said candidacy."

Almost immediately, Cato declares in like form his candidacy. I was hoping that it legalese would confuse him, but evidently it didn't. I have another plan up my sleeve.

"There being no further nominations, the question is that the bill be read the third time."

"Hear, hear," chants Cato, nodding politely, but his malevolent grin still present on his face.

"The question is that the doors be barred."

"Ha?" pipes Cato, but it is my turn to wear the evil grin as Gloss and Cashmere usher Brutus and Enobaria out, completely catching them by surprise.

"Firstly, for candidate No. 1, Marvel. Ayes to the right, nays to the left. Clear the lobbies!"

That caught Cato by surprise.

Glimmer, the two mentors, and I stand to my right, leaving Cato and Clove standing pitifully to the left. I put the names of the six people present on a piece of paper and indicate their positions. After half an hour, we re-converge at the centre of the room. I read out the results.

"Ayes to the right, 4 votes; nays to the left, 2 votes. I think the ayes have it! I declare Marvel the lead Career this year! Yay!"

"Marvel!" Cato shouts as he rushes towards me, "We think the nays have it!"

"No! The ayes have it!"

"Why?"

"I am the father of the house; you are 16, Glimmer is 16, Clove is 13, and I am 17, so I am considered speaker in preference before you."

"Marvel, you are an evil dictator!"

"No~" I say as I assume his evil grin, "the democratically elected lead Career. And trust me, as speaker I get to _discipline _you all I like."


	2. Chapter 2

Warning: poor authorship, slash (or lack thereof).

I hereby disclaim ownership of the original work of _the Hunger Games_.

A/N: Credit for this chapter goes to _the Fight for Dominance_ from guysonfire.

**Dictatorship: Chapter 2 - Discipline**

[Cato's P.O.V.]

After the recent defeat in my bid for the position of lead Career, I pace in my room on the train, in circles. _"Discipline," _what does he mean by that? Surely, I'm disciplined enough.

[Marvel's P.O.V.]

Cato is such a disciplined person that I could hardly find any subject on which he exhibits a lack of it. Oh well, at least I am the lead Career now. The afternoon sunshine pierces through the light curtains in the train, lavishing its warmth on my face. I'd love to stay on the sheets, but I have a suspicion that there is a plot against me: firstly to unseat me, then kill me.

Just now, a rapping comes from the door, and, without my given consent, the ghost barges into my room and inflate in haughtiness to occupy the whole space. The problem is that most ghosts have eye-holes, and this particular ghost has none. He trips, but lands on my bed.

"Marvel," he bellows, "that was brilliant!"

"Yes," I say, recognizing the figure under the blanket, "Master Gloss."

Gloss usually congratulates people by scaring them.

M "I have a problem."

G "Yes, do tell," Gloss says, removing the blanket.

M "I think Cato is trying to unseat me."

G "Almost certainly."

M "And I need to establish and consolidate my position. I need a second-in-command."

G "Who?"

M "That's the problem."

G "You're looking for a person with some leadership skills."

M "Yet not too much."

G "Someone agreeable to Cato and Clove…"

M "… But will not outright succumb to their demands…"

G "Someone who can be a friend in private…"

M "But not in public…"

G "He is neutral, judicious, and trustworthy… in public"

M "But flexible, solvent, and emollient… to my requirements…"

G "Someone who can stab Cato's back… sorry, who is principled."

M "Someone who is charming, tactful, but honest…"

G "Above all – sound…"

M "Someone whom you know can be manipulated, sorry, professionally guided…"

G "Someone who is not a Career…"

M "Someone whom I can dispose of quickly… sorry, can re-adapt himself for other purposes…"

G "Someone who has no firm opinion…"

M "Someone without the strength of purpose to depose you… sorry, to maintain a partnership."

G "Someone not too smart… sorry, not intellectually committed to analysis of my decisions…"

Gloss looks into my eyes, and I into his. It seems we've come to a conclusion after all, and upon the same person.

We start chuckling.

"Master," I say to Gloss, "it is impossible."

"Why? He's good-looking, and fulfills all of these criteria."

"There might be some benefits in doing it, but there are risks as well. Plus, it would looking like setting up a patriarchal government that is sexist!"

"Well, people like firm Career alliances. I'll be your liaison with Peeta."

Just now, we hear grunts of exertion from the compartment next to ours: Cato and Clove's compartment.

_Harder, Cato!_

_ Yes… yes… uh… oh! _

_ Do it! Can't wait…_

_ Yours is so tight, Clove! First time?_

_ Definitely first time… encounter… with this…_

_ Yeah…oh… oooh…_

_ Help!_

Gloss and I share the same incredulous expression: _are you thinking what I'm thinking?_

Silently, I grab the audio recorder, slap in a cassette, and press "Record."

As I watch the cassette rolls from one side to the other, I feel power flowing right back into me.

The conversation in ecstasy between Cato and Clove continues for another hour or so, and Gloss and I have our ears pasted against the compartment wall, and it surely is getting rather steamy on the other side. Notwithstanding the fact that I am getting rather excited (about disposing of Cato, not about _that_), this puts some additional complication into the story.

I could tell that Gloss is rather aroused too. His… let's say that the topography of his anterior surface betrays his feelings. Gloss lets out a series of huffs and puffs, with saliva drooling from his mouth.

"Cashmere… ha-ha… you're going to _suffer_ for refusing to do the dishes last night… ha-ha…" he comments, the affairs at hand causing him to become oblivious of my presence. The indiscretion, especially the implications of which, is appalling.

"Ahem," I purposefully remind.

"Ha? Mar…Marvel… you… uh… the… little… you… the question is… uh… in… in principle… uh…"

"We all cough sometimes."

"Most succinctly put, Marvel."

_Eww_, I say in my mind. While I didn't want to knock Gloss out of the sick little fantasy of his, I didn't want to know about the details of his… liaisons with his own sister.

"Well," I say to Gloss, "it's about time that we re-summon the house and receive the tributes from District 4."

"Yes… yes Marvel."

But before that, I want to have a little escapé with the two lovebirds next door.

I knock on their door.

"Master Speaker," Cato says, answering the door, "what can I do for you?"

His expression was surprising bright and energetic after the physically taxing activity he just had.

"Firstly, there is a session beginning in a hour to receive the District 4 tributes. Secondly…"

I stare at him.

"…is it going to be a boy, or a girl?"

"Ha?" pipes Cato, in a thoroughly amazed gasp.

"I think we both know what we are taking about. Your reputation… dear Cato… is hinged upon the secrecy of _this_," I say threateningly, pointing to my cassette tape.

"Marvel," he sighs, "I don't know what are you up to."

"Simple… you swear in public an oath of allegiance to me, and I return to the tape to you."

"Very well."

"I'll clear my throat and you make the move."

"Deal."

In the meeting, the District 4 tributes look worse than every before.

Right before I start speaking, I can't speak before I clear my throat, but if I do, Cato speaks first, and they'll think he's the leader.

Cato notices this complication, and adopts his famed smirk momentarily.

Every pair of eager eyes stare at me.

"Ahem…I…"

"Thanks, Marvel," Cato begins, "I have something to show everybody before I do it…"

I eye Cato, and pointing to the square thing revealed under the shirt-pocket.

"But…"

"The tape, Cato!"

I cringe at my revelation.

The embarrassment is unbearable.

"Ah yes, Marvel is going to show us a tape."

"No…"

"But I happen to have a video film, so, played together, they constitute a complete image."

Uh-oh.

Cato pulls down the screen, and puts the film into the roller, and starts winding it.

Film: _[Cato and Clove in room, basket between them; Cato chucks a lemon from the basket at Clove, misses, Clove yells "Harder, Cato!"; Cato says "yes… yes…"; Clove chucks a lemon at Cato, hits, Cato says "Oh…" but a larger lemon hits him in the face, Cato says "Oooh"; sit down, Cato opens a lemonade, Clove tries, fails, Cato says "Yours is so tight, first time?" Clove replies…]_

I let my mouth hang open. I kick the stand on which the film ran. I punch Cato in his face. Marvel is a gentleman. Uh-oh.

Cato gently recovers from the ground, stands in front of me, holds his arm out, and says, "I, Cato Attica, hereby affirm my allegiance to Marvel."

Now he's nominally my servant but absolutely my master.

"Enough!" I shout, in a sense of _marvelous majesty_.

**_A/N_**: Cliffhanger!


	3. Chapter 3

Warning: poor authorship, slash (or lack thereof).

I hereby disclaim ownership of the original work of _the Hunger Games_.

A/N: Credit for this chapter goes to _the Fight for Dominance_ from guysonfire. A joint credit also goes to Tylerstories – enter Peeta.

A/N: In this chapter, Marvel uses the 'majestic plural,' which means that he speaks as though he were more than one person, though he is only one person. Kings and Queens do this to show that they are 'majestic,' by using the plural pronouns.

A/N: The asterisk (*) is a reference in English history, the Baronial Wars of the 12th Century.

**Dictatorship: Chapter 3 –Marvelous Majesty**

Everybody looks at me – a silly little boy trying to impose his will.

"From now on," I pronounce with as much authority as possible, "everybody will call me 'your Marvelous Majesty' when you speak to me. And I will start using the royal pronoun. We will not tolerate this disorder and chaos in our dominion."

Silence in the room. Perhaps, it was too funny to be funny.

"We declare that the sole authority to make decisions shall be in us vested."

"Yes," Cato says, again with the sweeping bow, "your _Marvelous Majesty_."

"And we do, for the wellbeing of our Career Pack, hereby appoint in our absence Gloss our Lord Chancellor to deal with sponsors.

"Love and charity is not amongst you; look, what love is in one, when one calls another a weakling, a coward, or a heretic, and another calls one, a monster, an imposter, or an utter fake…" I trail off as a silver swathe of sheer metallic malice rushes to within an inch of my life: or death – in this case, regicide.

"Enough!" shouts Finnick Odair.

Seizing Cato's personal sword, he uses the tip to force me to the end of the throne room.

"Is this what a subject does to his King, Finnick Odair?"

I have a feeling that he's going to say that being called the "Marvelous Majesty" doesn't help anybody win the Hunger Games.

"This is _unconstitutional_, your Marvelous Majesty."

Thinking about the prospect of being deposed by the Baron* Finnick Odair, I think just the right bit of compromise would ease the situation a bit. It doesn't help with winning the Games to be dead.

"Finnick Odair," I say, "our grace will grant to thee thy accustomed freedoms & liberties, and thou shalt be loyal to me and my successor."

Now I have Finnick trapped; killing me after having an option to a compromise will definitely defame him. Now, I merely need…

Peeta barges into the compartment through the door, with a cup of hot chocolate on his hand. The aroma steaming from the cup almost set my mouth watery, but I will need his support to have a ruling coalition on the surface that will appease Finnick Odair, and in reality an autocratic dictatorship led by the Marvelous Marvel, under the guise of democracy. Ha! I must have an IQ of 450. I have tried this upon a number of others now, but none more perfect than Peeta.

"Dear Peeta!" I say without our (oops) my regal stateliness, "We, sorry, I would like you to be a co-leader with me for the Career Alliance this year!"

"Uh…" he hesitates, perhaps not immediately cognizant of the importance of this celestial promotion granted to him, "am I… really up for the job?"

"Of course!" I praise, without really knowing of his abilities, "you are impartial, judicial, and neutral! You know, the Careers usual split right down the middle due to unresolved disputes, and if you could lead the Careers with me, we could ensure that we all come to sense! Not to mention your ability to furnish us with advice on how non-Careers think!"

"Oh… Gee – I suppose…"

"Furthermore – you are conciliatory, and your gentleness will be a perfect buffer for the Career-temper."

I stare at the other Careers, expanding my eyes to the largest possible diameter.

"Well… I guess I accept them."

"Mr. Odair – you are satisfied that I am not acting unconstitutionally, are you?"

"For the moment."

The benefits of having Peeta as a nominal co-leader for the Alliance this year can be considered threefold: the first I have explained, the second is that if I make a wrong move, I can shove responsibility onto Peeta, and thidly, once he gets enough blame, nobody would miss him and I can easily dispose of him. Oops – he can re-adapt himself for other purposes. An unremunerated benefit is that Peeta also brings a refreshing reformation to the typical Career image: that we aren't close-minded, we aren't impulsive, and, most importantly, we can think and strategise. A fifth advantage is that Peeta is also attractive in his own right; of course, tall, blond, decent build, etc. all work towards his advantage, and his gentleness is the No1 attraction. Peeta can work for me as a human-shield against Cato… Conclusively, the benefits are endless.

Later that evening, I meander to the end of the train for the observation & parlour car. Lovely really, the parlour section is richly decorated in a long-gone fashion, and there are six really comfy sofas facing large windows. I gather we are passing through District 2 at the moment, and the setting sun with the gleaming, snow-covered peaks give a feast for my eyes and a spiritual uplift for my dwindling attention.

Night falls, and I am summoned to the powder room, and as I am about to exit, I hear footsteps raging through the corridor out side of the door.

_"Peeta," the voice, slightly slurred, says, "what's the good news?"_

_ "So, Marvel was like, 'I would like you to be with me joint-heads of the Career Alliance this year.'"_

_ "So," the voice replies, with a slightly lowered, raspier tonality, "what was the good news?"_

_ "That was the good news."_

_ "If so," the voice continues to deteriorate in gentility, "what do you call 'bad news'?"_

_ "Haymitch, this is a great honour and chance to save Katniss."_

_ "Peeta, do you know what this means if you accept?"_

_ "But I have."_

_ "You've what?"_

_ "I've accepted."_

_ "Peeta, this hideous appointment has been hurtling and echoing in the train for the past few hours like a grenade with the pin taken out."_

_ "But I get to be the joint-head of the Career Alliance!"_

_ "Peeta… how can I put this in a manner which is close to your heart – you simply can't win. Do you think Marvel is really going to let you make big decisions? The effectiveness of the Career Alliance hinges upon the fact that they make decisions quickly and execute them immediately, and your inclusion at the apex will do nothing but destroy that effectiveness. Do you think Marvel doesn't know this and is willing to destroy their premier strategy for the sake of 'democracy?'"_

_ "So he might; that Katniss can have a better chance."_

_ "So he might not; that's the beauty of the plan for Marvel, and the ugliness for you; as a 'leader' you will inevitably be compelled to divulge Katniss's information to them, and you serve as nothing but a rubbish dump for erroneous decisions made by Marvel. As such, you will not be able to influence the decisions made; you won't be able to take credit for the right ones either."_

_ "Haymitch, I am convinced that this is a great chance to win for Katniss."_

_ "Peeta, you must resign from this job immediately. If you resign now, Marvel can't hurt you yet; if you resign in the arena, Cato will disembowel you over the course of supper."_

_ "No, Haymitch, if I succeed, this can be like ending the Dark Days!"_

_ "Yes it can; and you can be District 13 in the course of doing so."_

It seems like Peeta might now know a thing or two more than I would like him to know. But I still exit from the powder room after the mentor is gone, and spot the internally-debating Peeta at the observation patio.

I approach him stealthily, like a leopard ready to pounce upon a prey. If the said Haymitch sees me so, he might have withdrawn the statement about me not hurting him should he resign. At the right distance, judged by my "A+" physics marks, I jump.

And I land just behind him with my arms on his shoulders. A great idea pops right into my mind as his eyes pop open to see me.

"Peeta," I say, not watching him but looking into the distance, "do you know how does being disemboweled feels like?"

I could sense just the type of quake that penetrates his body.

"Marvel…no…"

"Don't worry; Cato won't do it."

"How do you know?"

"Peeta," I explain, conjuring as cheerfully as I could, "disemboweling a person is a job that requires great patience, and I trust that you could tell that Cato isn't a patient person."

"I see."

But I grab the silver ashtray and press the pointy edge at Peeta's slightly exposed abdomen. The clothing on him is two sizes too small.

"Peeta," I say, trying my level best to imitate Cato's threatening ability and Clove's malice, "I will spend my time to teach you the ways of the Careers, all the time that I have; you can ask all the questions you want to ask, and I will answer them, one-by-one, so that you might know that I am a patient person. That much I can promise you; can you promise to lend your gracious leadership to the Careers?"

A combined threat and aid is universally effective against non-Careers. I impose more of my own weight onto him, causing much of his upper body to bend over the balcony. Some more force dislodges him from his balance, making him teetering over the railings, overlooking the tracks. I could tell that he isn't the most enthusiastic about such intimate and expansive contact with another member of his sex, and to be honest, nor am I, with my abdomen &c. pasted against his posterior, so I get myself off him and sit myself on the rattan chair, and he follows suit. A promise made under pressure, called duress, is not enforceable.

"Yes, Marvel."

"Good, and the first principal of this year's Alliance is _collective responsibility_."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Credit for this chapter goes to _the Fight for Dominance_ from guysonfire.

A/N: I disclaim the ownership of _the Hunger Games._

**Dictatorship Chapter 4 – Collective Responsibility**

The annoying _cling_ and _clang_ never ceases at the training centre, but none of those come from competent competitors. Competent competitors are before me, awaiting my commands.

I have, upon arrival at the Capitol, promulgated Peeta's decision to accept my offer as the joint-head of the Alliance, and he's really coming along.

There's but one problem at present: Clove is asleep on the sofa again; she evidently did not sleep well on the journey. I took another lemon out of her basket and chuck it at her abdomen, but she's too well entrenched in her activity, or inactivity, to be woken up by the simple rousing call of a tiny (we're out of large ones) lemon. The only other problem is that Cato is beginning to slouch on Clove's shoulders, and Clove would suffer asphyxiation if Cato doesn't wake up soon. Fortunately, Cato is alert enough when I use the blunt end of the spear. The only other, other, problem…

"Yelp!" he exclaims, to the cold and detached disposition of Glimmer and myself, "What was that for?"

"For your attention, Cato," I reply, not forgetting to wear Cato's evil smirk.

A slight frown surfaced on his forehead.

My trusty and well-beloved Peeta stands to my right, and I request him to call the meeting to order; he must have some preliminary authority to make the co-leadership realistic, at least for the public.

"I call this meeting to order," suggests Peeta, tentatively.

"Louder," I whisper in his ear.

"I CALL THIS MEETING TO ORDER," bellows Peeta.

Every single head in the training centre turns in the direction of the Career pack. Every pair of ears will listen eagerly to what we converse, and for the weaknesses in our deliberations. This's why Career meetings are usually done in secret.

"Just loud enough for the five of us," I suggest, as it is not in our interest to destroy his confidence… at this time.

"Okay…" he says, in the correct volume of 70dB, "first item: weapons selection. What are your weapons?"

Suddenly, everybody started chatting with each other for no apparent reason; usually Careers didn't have issues disclosing their best weapons, but this year, the have the gravest difficulty doing so. Why? I give a million reasons in my head, yet unable to find a satisfactory one.

"Marvel, you go first," Peeta says.

"Hi, I'm Marvel, and I'm 17 years old, and I live in District 1, and…"

"I thought," Cato cuts in, "we're done self-introductions? Besides, what is your weapon of choice, Marvel? That was the question."

Imaginary slap to my face: how could I get so absent-minded?

"Yes, as I say, the fact that I live in District 1," trying to conjure something, anything to disguise my mistake, "contributes to my selection of my weapon of choice: a spear."

They are not convinced.

"Why?" I question, trying to appear somewhat dominant, "are you in a position to question us? I mean me?"

"I don't have a principal weapon," states Glimmer, not recognizing my "dominance."

"I lean against my trusty sword," declares Cato with perfect candour.

…

[Switching to 3rd Person Objective]

Cato and Peeta enter the changing room. Cato sits Peeta down on the bench, and lays his palms upwards on his thighs.

"Is Marvel going to fall for this trick, now that you've told me that it's been used?"

"Why," Cato says, "has he failed to fall for any and every trick?"

"True… he doesn't appear immediately smart. But you need to make this as improbable as possible."

"I'm going to make it an impossible court case for Marvel to adjudicate."

…

[Back to Marvel's view]

"Hmm… tra-la-la-la" I hum, jogging, but assessing my foes.

[Back to 3rd Person]

"What?" Peeta shouts, "that's disgusting, Cato."

"Of course it's disgusting. In fact, the more disgusting the better."

"Will he fall for this one? It sounds so obvious to me."

"Yes he will."

"How so?"

"He's addicted to thinking about these activities, and the more wildly imaginative the activity, the more likely he will buy into it. I gather he's a depraved monster. So this is the most depraved and improbably thing I can think of."

"Heh…"

"Can you think of anything more perverted and abominable than this?"

"Cato," Peeta confesses, "I admit that I don't watch as much imaginary pornography as you do."

"Peeta~" Cato wails, "if you haven't watched every single film, how could you tell me that it doesn't exist?"

"…"

"Case closed," Cato concludes with a fist-pump, and then a pat to Peeta's shoulder.

[Marvel]

The meeting ended inconclusively. During lunch, I dine with Glimmer. Customarily, I go to the water closet. Into one of the cubicles, I lower the trousers and sit down. As I settle down, I notice four shoes visible from under the divider: from the disabled cubicle.

"Now!" one of the voices demands.

"Please, no…" the other whines.

"Beg for it!" the first voice demands.

"Ow….."

"Hmm… it seems that you're not in enough pain…"

"It hurts!"

"Yeah?" interrogates the first voice, rough and powerful, "I want to see you in pain. I want to see your pleading eyes, begging for mercy, and then I will say no to that."

"Please…"

And then a series of harsh grunts ensue with faint suggestions of a pumping & slapping noise, with emission of cries of pain and mercy emanating from the second voice.

"Scared?" asks the first voice.

"It's that… HUGE… goodness…"

"Yeah it is. Now, flip over."

"Are you thinking to…" whimpers the second voice, meek and defenceless.

"Yes I am. Now… I'm going to _stab_ you and _penetrate you _with _this_."

"What?" squeaks the second voice in terror, "I'd be skewered! Impaled! Please don't do this; I mean… it's statutory felony! I'm still a virgin!"

"You won't be in a second. I will _ your guts out of you," firmly states the first voice.

Then screaming covers any possible conversation they had thereafter.

If memory serves correctly, the first voice was that of the little boy from District 4, and the second that of Cato. "How in the world does this happen," I think to myself. If it could happen it ought to be the other way around. I temporarily freeze on my seat, immersed in the disturbing implications of the conversation that I had just heard. _Surely Cato can't be into that!_ _Especially in that position! And his choice for the other half of the relationship is even more hideously bizarre!_

_Wait!_ Is this another one of Cato's heinous attempts to embarrass me in public? _Shouldn't bear it! Shan't be deceived again!_

After finishing my own business amid the potent screaming, I walk straight out of the water closet.

Half an hour later, at the training stations, Cato comes screaming, with his hands on his posterior, for help.

"Marvel!" he gasps, "you promised to be fair and just; now's the time! I just got violated by that boy from District 4, and you've got to punish him!"

"Dear plaintiff," I say, pulling out the wig I have, stolen from Effie Trinket's collection, "are you sworn to this fact?"

"Yes! I swear to my affidavit!"

"Go get him then."

Peeta joins me _en banc_. I hand him an identical wig.

Cato runs at my command and lifts the boy from 4 to my presence at King's Bench like a kitten.

"Tiber," I say, "Cato alleges that you have violated him. How do you plead?"

He looks firstly confused, but then into my eyes. His watery eyes say in a voice louder than his vocal chord can muster, _not guilty_.

"_Nolo contendere_," he stammers.

"He's lying!" cries Cato like a 12-year-old from District 4.

So, I have a 16-year-old who cries like a 12-year-old and can literally tear a person's head from the body, and a 12-year-old who pleads innocence like a 12-year-old against a 16-year-old.

"How wilt thou be tried," I say to the defendant.

"By God and my country," he says, indicating a _trial by bench_.

"Cato," I state, "call your witnesses."

"I call…" he says, reversing his disposition into the smirk, "Marvel."

Gasp! I can't be summoned as a witness, can I?

"Uh…"

"Marvel…" Cato threatens, "as a member of a democratic alliance, you need to tell the truth."

"Yes, but…"

"My first question is, did you hear him say 'I'm going to _stab_ you and _penetrate you _with _this_'?"

"Well…"

"Yes, or no."

"Yes."

"And thereafter did you hear me scream?"

"Yes."

"The plaintiff has no more questions," Cato says.

"The plaintiff rests. Let the defendant call his witnesses," I say, turning to the smaller boy.

"I call Marvel," he says definitively.

Gasp!

I stand to attention and pull off the wig.

"Marvel," he begins, almost like a professional barrister, "is there any reason that you believe that I had been the person who wanted to stab and penetrate the plaintiff?"

"Well," I stammer, from my faint memory, "that your voice had a similar tambre to that of the voice I had heard."

"Did you see that I had stabbed or penetrated him?"

There is silence. Cato grins victoriously at me.

"I did not."

"The defence rests," suddenly states Peeta, saving my uncovered "arse."

I resume my wig, and return to the temporary bench with Peeta to deliberate on the supposed guilt of Tiber.

"Marvel," Cato begins again, with a very serious expression, "there is only one honourable course when a leader is unable to make a decision."

Gasp!

"That is to say," Cato elaborates, leaving no room for negotiation and imagination, "to relinquish his position to another, who can make a decision."

Eep!

…

I just need a moment to clear my mind up about all this mumbo-jumbo. That is precisely what Cato will not give me.

Okay.

Cato alleges that the Tiber had violated him. This is clearly impossible.

But Tiber has pled _nolo contendere_, which means that he'll accept conviction.

But if I convict Tiber, who is so cute, people will think I'm heartless, but moreover senseless, as he couldn't have possibly violated someone five times his weight.

But if I don't convict him, Cato will certainly claim that his grievance (which I heard) hasn't been redressed, and claim me an unjust leader.

But if I dismiss the case outright, all the world will call me _indecisive Marvel_.

If only I could get him to plead the defence of infancy! But he just wouldn't!

Wait… do I just remember seeing Peeta walking with Cato into the W/C?

…

"Peeta!" I opine like a hurricane, "you've sworn to disclose of all treasons against your rightful King Marvel. Disclose it! Disclose!"

The disclosure thereof affirms his loyalty towards me, but it still doesn't solve the issue at hand.

In three minutes, we have come to a conclusion. We have decided the fate of Tiber, and both Peeta and I are most ecstatic about this conclusion. This conclusion will shift the blame back to Cato.

On the other hand, I have just realized that Peeta, the weakling, the stooge, the façade, has just saved me from extreme embarrassment.

"We pronounce," Peeta says, with a glee in his eyes, "case dismissed due to collusive nature of the suit."

Both Cato and Tiber looked at us incredulously, as though they were going to explode.

"The _Exchequer Chamber_ is over there," I point to the Trainers' Lounge.

Walking down from the bench, I whisper in Cato's ear.

"And we're not going to grant the writ of error."

"Legal fictions! Legal fictions! My perfect plan for a legal fiction!" he shouts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Dictatorship Chapter 5 – Exchequer Chamber**

** A/N: A credit for this chapter still goes to guysonfire; I hereby disclaim ownership of Collins' the Hunger Games.**

**A/N: Now, I definitely hope to have some response to this chapter. I spent over 5 hours writing these petty 1,600 words. That's 1/5 my normal speed. Enjoy!**

[Marvel]

As the first day of training draws to a close, I sit in the lounge, enjoying the sun setting into the gleaming skyline of the capital city. _Magnificent_, I tell myself; that same word qualifies as a perfect modifier for my performance as an adjudicator today.

Some of us are still training at the stations, but I though I had better give my arms a slight rest, lest I sprang them. Turning my head around, I spy Clove still diligently puncturing the targets with her throwing-knives, and my dear Glimmer shooting her arrows, though her accuracy is much of an embarrassment against that of Clove. At the other end of the gymnasium, Cato still battles tirelessly against the training dummies; a significant number thereof, or portions there-thereof (or is it thereof-of?) have already succumbed to his immaculate swordplay. Yet I could tell that he treats every dummy like a real, animate opponent, and every moment spent therewith as though his very life was on the line; that is the signature of a great competitor. But enough of that, I must strategise. Perhaps reading a couple of books will help.

At the small library (or is it just a bookcase?) I scan the catalogue. There are not many interesting books, but there are many famous books. _De Agri Cultura_, a nice and peaceful one, it ought to calm my hostile mind down into a state fit for strategizing. But there is an unpleasant odour from this book.

Indeed – written by Cato. I took the book off the shelf, but a slip of paper fell out of the cover page. The text is in an untidy scribble, and the ink is partially smudged over by a liquid with extremely pungent and unwholesome fetor.

_ "Marvel: I knew that you're my fan. From Cato."_

What a sick joke. _You are an insult to his name._ Does the imbecile purport that I'd believe this note is from Cato, who probably can't read/write English? I shove the book back onto the shelf and simultaneously imagine shoving my spears into his sensitive parts. I tore the book to its right down. _Phaedo_, by _Plátōn_, good. But a similar note flies off the top as well.

_ "Dear me, Marvel. Don't you even have the courage to admit that you're my fan? Going just for the three letters, a-t-o?" _

Stop it, Cato, you're just proving your illiteracy. The transcribed letters are á-t-ō, not a-t-o. "O" and "Ō" are very different in Greek.

I shall have to get things straight with him; to resolve this out in the open, so that there be no confusion about my dignity.

But just as I turn around, the culprit already stands behind me. As the book was on the lower shelf, I am in a squatting position. The culprit, on the other hand, stands at full height; my head instinctively brings my eyes to square his gaze. My much shorter position robs me of my ability to stare him down.

"Aw Marvel," he begins in a starkly pseudo-compassionate tone, "I though you'd take an interest in the book that I wrote."

"I!..." I defend, but no words that follow shield me against his assault.

"Aw Marvel, surely you aren't so afraid of me as to be completely unable to read my masterpiece, are you?"

"Stuff your 'masterpiece,'" I rage my words out, "it sucks anyway."

"Is it that my book 'sucks,' " he says, "or your reading skills suck?"

"My reading skills… it…" I say, but not able to form the words out of utter disgust with his unrightfully lodged claim to authorship.

"Marvel~ you aren't passing judgment on my innocent little book before you've read it, are you?"

"I did not!"

He starts to shake his head slowly and exaggeratedly, "Never judge a book by its cover, men say."

"I declaim that I disclaim that."

"Then why does it 'suck?' What does it suck?"

This is ridiculous; so ridiculous that I can't think of a way to reject it. I have to drop the bomb.

"It sucks because! Because! It… it… it… it sucks your **** and your ****ing enormous ego!"

I haven't said a single swearword in three days' time, and he has to break my record. By the way, I curse like a sailor.

"Well," he puts his palms out, "I'm glad to see that your studied judgment in biology, zoology, and taxonomy led you to this enlightened conclusion that the inanimate object could do that."

"You ****ing idiot! Go **** your mother's ****ing ****! You… you… *&$^#!"

"Marvel," he accuses, "you surely aren't advocating an illegal activity, are you?"

Gotta calm down… calm down… positive thinking… Marvel… But it mustn't look it; I need to appear enraged. I spring up and ball my fist and have them by my side.

"As you recall, me dear Cato, that this activity as described in Hesiod's Theogony is clearly permissible both legally and religiously," I state, but instantly feeling the rope coming back me my side, as I begin, "or undoubtedly you would have recalled, had you not skipped your clearly Oxonian education."

Cato's face goes blank. Victory is in sight.

"Well," Cato says blandly, "I am glad to hear that your superior education did clearly lead you to use much more refined language that you otherwise could have, or undoubtedly you would have had you not attend that superior education."

"Are you telling me that you are implying that I am undereducated?"

"That was not what I said."

"Then what did you say?"

"I am telling you that I am not telling you that I am telling you that I imply that you are undereducated."

"So!" I shout, ready to break this silly word-game stalemate, "let us make this clear: do you tell me that you do not tell me that you do tell me that you imply that I am undereducated?"

"No."

"Good."

"Well," he begins again, "so you are undereducated, Marvel."

"You just denied that."

"That was not what I said."

"Then what did you say?"

"I said, 'I did not tell you that I deny that.'"

"No, Cato, this is ridiculous."

"No, Marvel, this only looks ridiculous."

"So, Cato, are you trying to make this look ridiculous?"

"No, Marvel," he fires away, "I am worried that, whereas your 'superior education' undermines the name of the Careers, the absence of the superior education will only make you appear as though you are trying to undermine the name of the Careers."

"But you are clearly worried that you will not look as though you were trying to undermine the name of the Careers, which condition you would have certainly realized had you been educated at all."

Pewh…

But I hurl the _Phaedo_ at Cato. He is evidently quick enough to skewer it with his sword.

He takes the mutilated book off the sword, and snarls at it.

"I hate competition. You're just an imitator. 'C' is clearly superior to 'Pi-Lambda.'"

"Your abominable ignorance has already annihilated any remaining trace of whatever pride that the name of a Career Tribute ought to have.

"_My_ abominable ignorance?" he states, with a previously unseen irritation on his face, "may I ask, what of?"

"Of the clear lack of understanding of the chronological relationship between Plato, both Catoes, and yourself."

"How… dare… you… Marvel… you're getting on my nerves, Marvel. Lemme tell you, mate, nobody who gets on my nerves ever escapes."

"See," I shout, swiveling around to face the others, "this is the voice of my principal competitor, thinly veiled violent thuggery."

"Do you like hospital food, pal?"

"Yes, that my arse is covered by _First Insurance Company Inc. _in District 1."

Time to prove him wrong, by action.

I pull out my cheeks and swivel my tongue in his face, and roll my eyes in a teasing fashion, and dart off in the direction of the lift. Who says nobody escapes?

Well, I suppose his bulky shape says so. Who knew the elephant could run at a jaguar's speed? In just a second, he floors me at the entrance to the lift car: the dimmed lights therein looked like the saviour to me, but now so distant as he caught me.

"Marvel!" he hisses in my innocent ears, "you'll pay for this!"

I try to struggle and wiggle out of his contraption, but that proves futile. Back to the word-game, I suppose.

"Cato, you are the one to pay for it."

"What for?"

"It was you who skewered the book. I didn't. I suppose it would be out of print, so very expensive indeed to replace it."

"Oh dear," he says, as his mind evidently drifted to another place.

"Besides, you crotch &c. are uncomfortably proximate to my southern necessities and also the place where they are connected to my hips. Get off me. Unhand me. Or I shall shout."

"Oh yes? Try me."

He squeezes me even further. _Oh no, Cato, you don't… you couldn't be… you mustn't be…_

The lusty sweat dripping from his forehead confirms my worst fear. _That he is…_

I manage just to turn my head from the ground and see his lascivious face. After what does he lust, we shall find out soon.

"YOU'RE GAY!" we bellow at the same time at each other, his tonsils clearly visible to me, and mine to him.

Then we two spring away from each other as though we were magnets with the same pole.

"Marvel," he says, leaning on his side, "let's get this straight – factually straight – in three weeks only one of us will be alive."

"And there should be no doubt about who he is."

Gloss and Brutus bounce onto the scene, and jointly declare:

"Well, aren't we glad that you two have ended on a note of agreement – a _gentleman's agreement_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Dictatorship Chapter 6 – Gentleman's Agreement**

**A/N: I really have little idea where this story is going. But, as per custom, gratitude goes to guysonfire for the inspiration in his fabulous ****the Fight for Dominance.**

**A/N: I hereby disclaim ownership of Collins' ****the Hunger Games****.**

I wake up on my sofa with a hail of squishy, winding, warm, and slightly humid matter of elongated, cylindrical nature caressing my face.

"That was for the lemon you threw at me earlier today," Clove states, her face only a couple of inches from my spaghetti-obscured complexion, "next time, throw it at the reader."

"Goodness," I say, fighting the urge to eat the shrimp on my nose, my tummy rumbly, "why are you so vindictive?"

"Vindictive?" she asks, a frown on her face now visible as the spaghetti subsides, "You've seen nothing yet."

Just at this moment, Glimmer comes into my suite and sees Clove in a threatening position against me. She adopts an aggressive march towards Clove, all her pomp making her presence known.

"Get off my friend," she shouts in Clove's right ear, with her uncontrolled volume liable to cause one's ear-drums to ring, "you stupid little b–" as her voice abruptly cuts off with her hand clasped on her mouth.

_Don't say it, Glimmer!_

Clove turns in time to see her.

"You… you lady of questionable repute!"

"Thank you, Glimmer." I say as I release my nerves.

Clove shrugs her shoulders.

"You people from 1 are so strange," she comments as she begins her departure from our suite, "I mean, if you want to say it, then just say it. I'm not telling you to curse like a sailor, but just say it."

After all, District 1 couldn't risk another outburst in a single day; I had just depleted that quota. We're supposed to be the closest to the Capitol-Standard in interpersonal conduct. After us, there's 3, and thence, 4, and then it's 12. We take being polite very seriously in 1. That's why I am the most attractive male in the whole pool, and why my odds of winning ought to have been 1 in 2, were it not for the illiterate elephant. (Or is it heffalump for him?)

Even in the academies we were trained with a sense of style; that's why I chose the spears. So elegant, so simple, yet so effective, that's the nature of my weapon. In one seamless, fluid, natural motion it can go from zero to 60 in a matter of ½ of a second, and penetrate an opponent almost instantly. There's little blood, and even less screaming. In the night it's undetectable, in the day invincible. From the long-range effective, and the short efficient. Even in the most unseemly of circumstances, namely dying, we were taught to die with style, with dignity. We don't allow ourselves to be captured and then tortured; we finish ourselves off if it's inevitable anyway. Of course, we'd rather have a winner in the stead of a loser, but lyings-in-state are customarily given to our fallen Tributes. That's the way we do things in the premier district of the Union: with dignity and respect. We share District 2's enthusiasm, but we care for the people who made the sacrifice; in the unlikely event that I'd unable to return, I know that my family will be cared for, and that they will be held in high esteem, so I can just focus on winning.

Being the loyalist District, the Capitol always appoints a Mayor based on actual polls conducted here; the families of the fallen ones have actually obtained a housing grant from the government. The grant was evidently so large that the houses they bought (on the inside) were not any second to those in the Village. But then of course, the houses in the Village were just decent houses by our standards, and there are plenty of much better houses.

As I understand, District 2 doesn't get nearly as much attention and pampering as we do; that is confusing, as they were the reason that the Capitol did not fall during the rebellion. Perhaps it's because the Capitol bureaucrats don't like their incivility? (Remember spaghetti?)

Take me for example: my father works as a court clerk in the Exchequer Chamber in District 1, and my mother as a manager for a fashion company. People from other districts asked me, "Isn't 1 supposed to do jewelry?"

Of course, we specialize in jewelry, but other aspects of society still needs to go on; water still has to run, for that we need plumbers; telescreens still needed programmes, for that we have actors in a section in town called Jollywood (it baffles me; there are no woods in those parts); and finally, disputes still need to be adjudicated, so we still need courts of law, and my father helps them. That's why I know so much about law. That's why I won't grant the writ of error. That's why I know how to solve disputes.

Glimmer has an independent but fairly successful architect as her mother, and a civil servant as her father, working in the Foreign Office.

"Marvel," Glimmer calls, "are you quite done mind ****ing some little *****, for whom I feel nothing but the deepest pity?"

As I sit motionlessly, the spaghetti has hardened slightly, so that I could pull off the mass in one go.

"Dear Glimmer," I reply, "If that's how you would describe yourself, I truly do feel nothing but the deepest pity."

"Marvel!" Glimmer shouts in blatant frustration with my little quibble, "I was speaking of Clove!"

"Clove is a virgin, Glimmer, doubtlessly."

"How could you be so sure."

"In 2 they take paedophilia as a positive thing, and she certainly would have divulged her participation therein if she were not a virgin."

"Marvel," Glimmer says, sitting down on her orange couch, her hands over her face, "will you or will you not stop using 'thereof' and 'therein' and all derivatives thereof? They are driving me crazy!"

"I can't, Glimmer, I can't. It's part of Marvel. It's part of being Marvelous."

Really, I can't. Ever since I was 4, my father brought me to the Exchequer Chamber on Friday afternoons to watch him. As clerk to the court, he had quite a bit to do, reading and presenting the evidence, &c. I remember clearly the afternoons I spent sitting at the great table at the centre of the court, just all enough to see what's going on. There was the excitement, the anticipation.

At the dinner table, the pair from 2 and we acknowledged each other's presence. It was a fine buffet dinner, but I've seen most of these foods, just that they are now taking on an ostensibly unnatural tint.

Cato stands behind me in queue. At the antipasto section, I pick up 2 pieces of green salami, a hard-boiled pink egg, and a slice of grey foie gras. I would have skipped the caviar if it hadn't the strange cyan tint.

I turn around to see Cato staring at the food incredulously. He waffled his hand at an avox, beaconing her to come over.

"Can I have some more natural-looking food?" has asks.

The avox pulled out her notepad, and scribbles down a clearly unsatisfactory answer. She then points at the purple cauliflower at the end of the buffet; those cauliflower as I know require no food colouring.

"Thank you," he says dismissively, "that will be all."

The avox bows to him, and he nods in recognition.

But he is still gawking at the food as though it were from Uranus.

Without notice, the person behind him, the boy from 3, Mark, pokes him with a stake-knife.

"Will you just pick already?! We haven't all day! I wanna eat!" he shouts and stomps. At the same time, he punches Cato's tummy with all his might – which isn't terribly powerful.

Cato falls deaf on his complaint. I twirl my finger to signal him Mark's protest.

"Oh," he says, turning around and bending down. His mind does seem pre-occupied with some other matter. Being polite definitely isn't part of his normal agenda.

"So sorry," he confirms my suspicion, "I was, you know, just being indecisive."

He pats Marks head, at such an angle that I could see him expression – one of exasperated appreciation. A genuinely amiable grin beams from his face.

_Cato being nice? The sun must have dawned from the West today!_

Well.

_Hang on, Cato isn't… a paedophile, is he? I cringe at the implications thereof. Brutus was a convicted paedophile, and, Cato being his mentee, it could very well have…_

Goodness.

At this point, Mark surpasses Cato and tried to clip the foie gras. Cato's stationary, bulky form prohibits Mark's short arms from reaching the foie gras. But Cato doesn't realize that there is a queue behind him, which is beginning to clamour against our lack of pace. Something is clearly wrong with him, to make him start valuing things that he would have sliced cleanly in half just earlier today.

"Marvel," an unexpected voice pops up, "please, a word with you."

It was Master Brutus.

I follow him into the waiting room, with my meager portion.

He firstly sits me down and then holds my hands in a rather affectionate position.

"Marvel," he begins, his head hangs low, "there has been some very grave news."

"Is this for my ears?" I ask.

"Yes. And do listen closely."

"I'm all ears."

"Mistress Enobaria of District 2 has just informed me that Cato's parents committed suicide this very morning."

I gasp.

"H…How?"

"They hung themselves from their gazebo. They were rushed to the hospital, but it was too late."

"Did… did they say… say why?"

"They say that they have been a failure at parenting, and could not amend their wrongs but by death. Their last wills and testaments were read in public this afternoon, and they left their fortune to Cato, as well as their real property.

I was then discharged from the room. I hurry back to Cato, still standing by the foie gras.

"Cato?" I say without much volume, but trying to get his attention, "Listen… I am most sorry for what has just happened. Glimmer and I offer our most sincere condolences."

He gently turns to look at me. His eyes are watery.

"I… I…" he stammers, "I'm not worried about myself, Marvel. My brother Plato will be grieve-stricken. He's… he's only 12. Oh Marvel! What am I to do? I must win… I must… for my brother."

Comparing our conditions, Cato is really in knee-deep **** now.

"

Once upon a time there was a boy called

Cato, and then he his parents so appalled

Twelve souls and bodies he divorced in rage

But they were from his very nest and cage

" He says.

I could see his saline tears purging the blue from the foie gras.

"Cato," I say, "if there's anything I could do, just tell me, and I shall do my best. I know that it's difficult for you, and, hey – we're a happy team, are we not? We are here to help each other out."

"Really?"

"Of course."

"Marvel," he sobs again, "I might not walk away alive, but I mustn't let my brother see me in a pathetic state. So will you relinquish you throne, Marvel?"

"Of course, Cato, it means little if we're a team."

"Thanks, Marvel."

He begins to collect his food again.

Master Gloss came over to congratulate my mature decision to maintain the unity of the Careers.

"…Marvel," he says in conclusion, "that was a great thing to do. But don't be so soft in the arena, okay?"

"Certainly."

"We should visit Cato. I haven't delivered my condolences yet."

"Let's go."

"I'll come too," Glimmer says.

Scaling the stairs, the night was heavy. The door to Cato's room was slightly ajar, and music copiously leaks from it.

We walk into the room, and Cato is on the phone, his back to us.

"… yeah, and could you believe Marvel's expression, ha! Dad, I fooled him completely! You should've been there to see him. Pure amusement! And…"

"Ahem," Gloss says.

He goes to Brutus.

"Dear Brutus!" he begins, "I'm here to deliver my _most sincere condolences _to Cato's parents' _deaths_. It really was _most tragic and unfortunate_. In fact, we need to lift this _sullenness!_"

Cato spins around to see us – absolutely surprised, and unpleasantly so.

I advance upon him. He retreats to the window.

"Marvel… he… I … I… I meant… that… it… heh… I really…"

"Cato," I say, with my face devoid of compassion and sympathy, "this is a disgrace. You – will suffer for this ugly treachery and repugnant deceit."

"I…" he says, shoving out his iPad like a shield, "meet my parents."

I stare into them – nice people really.

"I see," I say, waving my hand, "hi, Cato's parents, I'm just going to comfort you by saying that I will be the death of your eldest male child. Goodbye," I close, as I press the "disconnect" button.

"Hey, hey, hey – Marvel, you'd promised me a gentlemen's agreement. Now treat me like one."

"Oh indeed," I drag out my voice, "I will treat you like a gentleman, one who doesn't invent his parents' deaths."

I usher him into his room.

"Why are you pushing me about?"

"Let's spare the lady the more unpleasant sights and sounds of your punishment, shall we?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Dictatorship Chapter 7 – Crime and Punishment**

**A/N: this chapter contains counter-slash and sweet-lemon; read with caution.**

**A/N: text in bold is known to all four characters; text in regular is only known to two.**

"So," Clove began halfheartedly, sitting adjacent to Glimmer, "how do you think your district partner is currently befouling my district partner?"

"Befoul?" Glimmer says, not so much as raising an eyebrow, "I rather think 'belittle' is a word that fares much better at describing the situation, dear."

"Really, dear?" Clove asks a non-question, "I was hoping, in vain perhaps, that we settled this silly little quarrel and play these Games like we're supposed to."

"That, dear friend," Glimmer replies with a non-response, "comes only through either co-operation or subjugation. The former brings publicity, and the latter victory; but since the latter is inevitably bestowed upon someone, only the former is worth seeking."

"How true, dear Glimmer."

Marvel hobbles over to the food-ordering portal.

"Deußenberry Blue, 2 please," Marvel orders laxly and silently into the speaker. Marvel returns to the bed and snuggles himself into the covers with Cato.

** "Aaaarrrarararrraghhhhaaahhh –," Cato shouts.**

** "Ooooouuuuuuchhhhhhyyyyyy – ," Marvel echoes. **

** "Marvel," Glimmer says as she abruptly stands up, looking at the closed door at Cato's porch, "you seriously don't need some help?"**

** "Cato," Clove says in replication, "the same?"**

** "Glimmer, I'm OK."**

** "Clove, the same."**

** They toast.**

** "Oi! Cato, you broke my favourite cup! You're going to paaaayyyyy for this~"**

** Marvel stops and punches Cato's fluffy pillow, producing a noise akin to a muffled punch against flesh.**

** "Mar~vel~ What was that for? Imagine how you are going to be begging for mercy when I drop the dressing table on you~"**

** Cato goes off the bed and slams the clock on the night table, making a frightful racket.**

** "Cato! Guess what~ I may be bleeding like crazy, but I'm still going to fight you like a man~" Marvel feigns, bashing his limbs against the bed.**

Glimmer and Clove visibly draw in a deep breath as they continue to root for their respective partners in the campaign for the leadership.

** "Marvel," Glimmer says worriedly, knocking on the locked door, "you sure you don't need an ambulance?"**

** The answer is in the negative but heavily dossed with masculine indifference.**

"Thanks, dear," Marvel says softly as the drinks appeared through the delivery window. He hands one to Cato.

"Here's to your health," Cato says, raising his 70th drink this evening to the heavens, "and to the winner of our fight."

** "Hic," replies Marvel.**

** "Hic?" asks Glimmer, who just sat down at her chair, restarting the footage of the 20****th**** Games.**

** "Hic? I mean Heck! Cato! I won't wash my shirt when it has your blood all over it. I'll put it in a frame and use it as a decoration for my son's room." Marvel bellows, huffing and puffing especially conspicuously.**

"This is good stuff, Marvel," Cato comments thoughtfully, marveling at the golden filtrations of the amber ambrosia that Marvel had ordered for him."

Glimmer has, for another hour, paced impatiently in the living room, listening to the punching and gasping from the two males shielded from their scrutiny.

** "Dear Clove," she spouts, "would you not agree that any fight with Career-intensity ought to have been decided by now?"**

** "I couldn't agree more, dear Glimmer."**

Marvel keeps his ears pasted to the door.

"Cato," Marvel whispers with urgency, "they're beginning to think that we're done fighting! Make some noise!"

** "Aaaarrrrraaaaaggggghhhhh!" Cato moans as though he were in pain.**

Glimmer and Clove exchange a nod of acknowledgment and an unspoken scheme, most dark and spiteful. They move the furniture to the door of Cato's chambers, and sit thereon. They begin speaking in a… hyperbolical manner.

** "I am rapidly coming to the conclusion," Glimmer states, "that the 'screams of exertion' emanates from an activity of considerable difference in nature than that which we had believed to have been taking place." **

** "What sort of activity?"**

** "An activity that involves intimacy instead of hostility."**

** "Care to elaborate your deductive mind, dear Glimmer?"**

** "An activity particularly and ostensibly unsuitable for our underaged eyes and ears, and unworthy of our patience and respect."**

** "Which is…"**

** "Susceptible to derive pleasure rather than pain."**

** "Dear Glimmer," Clove says in false disbelief, "you are surely not suggesting that they… they"**

** "Precisely."**

"Cato!" Marvel says, "They're beginning to think that I'm befouling you!"

"What?" Cato replies in obvious panic, "They couldn't possible think that!"

** "In fact," Clove suggests wildly, "if they have decided to admit each other as their dearest and closest and consequently abandoned us, why should we even pretend to maintain a relationship with those two **_**gentlemen**_**?"**

** "Indeed," Glimmer puts forth, "if they are permitted to adulterate our confidence, why should we defend theirs in light of their iniquitous treatment to that of ours?"**

** "Exactly, Glimmer," Clove recommends, "if they derive pleasure from each other, why shouldn't we be able to do the same?"**

** "How gratifying, Clove, to have a lady of your mental constitution to enlighten the both of us."**

"What?" Marvel shouts in outrage, "they… they… they…. We must go out and clear our names!"

"No," Cato replies, "that'll make them think we bow to their requests. They're doing it because they want to make us jealous!"

"Then we must make them jealous instead!"

"Exactly, Marvel," Cato bellows in fellowship, "we are not to permit those little whores to engage in this outrageous, scandalous activity."

"Alone."

"Precisely."

** "Item, 1 undressed Clove," states Glimmer, "check."**

** "Item, 1 flower vase, I understand you like it big," states Glimmer, "check."**

** "Item, 2 pieces of rope," says Marvel, "check."**

** "Item, 1 naked Cato," repeats Marvel, "check."**

"And, now, for the finishing touch, follow my lead," instructs Glimmer through whispers.

** She starts moaning in a highly erotic fashion. Clove imitates her, and produces disturbing noises.**

The two gentlemen then move from their position on the floor to opposite ends of the sofa.

"Wait," whispers Cato, "who's going to be, you know, at the top?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might."

"Right. I'll flip a coin. Heads or tails?"

"Heads."

He flips it.

"It's tails."

"It looks like I owe you a favour then."

"Fine. I'm a great actor."

Marvel stands up.

** "Cato," Marvel continues in his normal voice in an increased volume, "I've tied you to the bedposts. There's no escape!"**

** "Come on, man, you don't have to do this to me!"**

** "Oh, yes, Cato, you're going to be executed by impalement, you know."**

"That's such an exaggeration," Cato whispers.

"No, Cato, think of something crazy to say."

**"Well," Cato resumes his normal volume, "bring it on, Marvel! I can take everything!"**

** "We'll see about that!"**

"Cato, scream." Asks Marvel.

**"Ouch! Aaarrrraaaagh! Arrrrararaaaaaaaaarrararghghghgh!"**

**"Couldn't even take it up to here? You'll see how painful it would be with all 32 ½ inches of it within you!"**

"32 ½? Is that even possible?"

"Well," gasps Marvel, "we're trying to make them jealous, right? No point in stopping short."

**"Cato, you're so tight!"**

** "Stop it, Marvel, you've hit the spot repeatedly, and I think I'm going to pass out!"**

** "Yeah? I've said that my insane ability to torture you with my body would not stop until the seeds of life are emitted!"**

** "Hah… heh… you look so smexy without your clothes on, Marvel, yeah, harder!"**

"You're a better actor than I thought," says Marvel in a whisper.

"Thanks."

**"I know, right?" Marvel continues amid emitting hard, masculine grunts of a profoundly embarrassing nature, "I'm like the god Adonis! Let's see how much longer will it take for you to beg for mercy!"**

"Wow," states Cato in amusement, "this is completely incoherent."

"Of course; we won't want them to know that it's actually not happening, do we?"

**"Well, Cato, what do you think? I'm pounding away at your tenderest areas, and your member looks as though it were the Statute of Liberty compared with the World Trade Centre!"**

** "Show me what you've got, Marvel, oh yeah, yeah…"**

"Scream harder," Marvel directs.

**"Argh! My posterior really can't take it any more, Marvel…"**

** "Well too bad, you need to be punished! You're the one who's going to explain to Clove why you can't sit down!"**

"We can't lose to this abominable buggery going on in that cursed room!" mutters Glimmer to Clove, who is beginning to get short on breath with her heaving.

**"Aw geez… not even Enobaria was this good with it," states Clove in corrupted exhaustion.**

"Why," Cato says in utter surprise, "I did not know that Enobaria is such an inbred, incest-ridden hag! Besides, she's more than 40 – having this sort of behaviour with 13-year-old Clove is utterly immoral and atrocious."

"Indeed," Marvel echoes, "are you thinking… trespass…"

"Vi," continues Cato.

"Et…"

"ARMIS! Hell yeah!"


End file.
